it's a shame you don't know
by rockinrye
Summary: If there is royalty in Westbrook, Santana Lopez is it. Archbishop McKinley Prep is her kingdom; and, the grand house on the hill of Xavier Road, her castle. * this story features Santana Lopez, Rachel Berry and Noah Puckerman.
1. Chapter 1

If there is royalty in Westbrook, Santana Lopez is it.

Archbishop McKinley Prep is her kingdom; and, the grand house on the hill of Xavier Road, her castle.

Daddy writes big checks and she is beyond beautiful, and untouchable, and brilliant. She's equipped with a wicked tongue, expressive eyebrows and the perfect pair of accents to any top.

She's not kind but nobody cares.

She's not a virgin but they believe she is.

She's not happy but nobody can see that.

There's sweat on her temples and between the valley of her breasts and an ache in her thighs that she loves— that reminds her she's alive. An ache that she seeks every morning when she slips into tiny Nike shorts and matching sports bras and shoes made for running (this morning they're red). An ache that comes when her commanding stride turns into a sprint for something she can't find. It's calming and callous, soothing and chaotic but it settles her, something in her, every morning before the sun is at its highest.

Every eye in her home is still closed when she reaches the top of the hill, slips past the gates and Marcus, who protects what her father's built with a straight face, a broad chest and dark sunglasses that cover his calculating glare. He smiles at her, barely visible but there and very real. She tips her own head with a smirk and waving fingers.

She's reaching for her toes as soon as she's inside, exhaling softly and stretching muscles. Then guzzling ice-cold water and eating a wedge of the mango May slices for her every week. She slides the tupperware back into the fridge and jogs up the winding stairs to the first floor, slips down the hall then up the back staircase to her own room on the second floor.

Her clothes are in a pile on the floor and hot water is cleaning her body in no time.

She lives for routine. For waking early and running, for small smiles at the deserving, for that second bottle of ice-cold water and that one slice of mango but, most of all, she lives for this, this cleansing that prepares her to be Santana Lopez each day. Because in the time it takes to become Santana Lopez, she's just Santana.

Puck's sitting on her bed when she comes out of her bathroom, still in the boxers and V-neck tee he usually sleeps in. He smirks and she rolls her eyes, picks up the remote to her dock and turns on some music.

"Good morning to you, too," he says when she doesn't acknowledge him. She just hits him with a pointed glare, reaches into her drawer for her underclothes and heads back into the massive en suite bathroom. She's not ready to deal with him today and she doesn't have to. So, she won't.

She hears the door click a few minutes later when she's tugging on plum shaded panties with a matching lace bra and dusk blue accents. She stands for a few moments staring at her reflection in the large mirror that backgrounds the marble sink. It's almost too easy to ease the smirk onto her lips. She doesn't mind.

...

May, their "maid" (though he doesn't really like calling her that), is standing over the stove humming and stirring and spicing when he jogs down the stairs, chino shorts hanging off his hips, a white, black and gold rugby spread over his chest and wheat toned Clarks on his feet. She smiles briefly, and turns back to her cooking when he tips his head in greeting.

He's gulping grape juice when Santana comes into the kitchen, lips pressed together, eyebrows set in a way that says they're teasing to arch. Puck gives her a quick once over, eyes scanning over her chest pressing against the sharp V of her shirt. She gives him a bored look in return when his eyes meet hers and then her hair is whipping over her shoulder as she yanks open the fridge.

"Morning," she says, leaning her head back out of the door, to look at May. She turns her head, flashes a smile and asks Santana how she's doing. "I'm fine," she says sounding anything but. There's a stick of string cheese gripped in her palm with the bottle of Pom she's fetched when she closes the refrigerator.

He's not extending any more invitations for her to acknowledge him this morning, so. He slips onto a steel stool at the large island in the center of the kitchen and polishes off his grape juice. She gets like this, moody and mute, which, for some reason, is more annoying to deal with than the default of bitchy, snarky and conniving.

"Hi," she says finally, easing onto the stool next to him. She twists off the cap of the pomegranate juice, takes a swig, and then works on unwrapping the cheese. She peels off a thick string, passes it to him then focuses on the buzzing of her phone. "Party tonight. Cocktail attire. Dad says it's 'important'," she lifts a hand to make air-quotes then rolls her eyes, "But that's every party."

Puck just nods and sticks the cheese in his mouth while she talks. May's still humming some tune he should know after two and half years in this home when she slides a plate in front of him. Three slices of bacon, an omelet filled with three different cheeses, ham, green peppers, onions and mushrooms like every Saturday morning before this one. Santana snatches a strip of bacon while she types out a text.

"You have your own food, bitch."

"Whatever, Puck," she says, not looking up from her phone. May puts Santana's plate down in front of her – a scramble with skillet potatoes, spinach, turkey, peppers and onions – then crosses the kitchen to get the salsa. As soon as Santana's shaken pepper and poured salsa his fork is scooping from her plate. She elbows him half-heartedly but doesn't say anything else. He doesn't really expect her to.

...

Mike looks good. He doesn't dress like a douchebag who stepped out of a Black Label ad like everyone else in Westbrook and she appreciates it most days. His jeans aren't three sizes too small or four too big. They sit nice on his hips and she's thinking about the well-defined cut into his sides she knows is beneath them. He's got on a nice pair of Jordans that he'd tell a fucking story about if she complimented. So, she doesn't. She just rolls the window down and tells him to put a fucking move on it.

"Checking me out?" He teases when he slips into her black Range Rover, smiling widely and pushing his Ray-Ban's up onto the top of his head. Santana has tints that are darker than legal so the sun isn't much of a problem inside her vehicle.

"Watch the interior," she says, smoothing a hand over the ivory leather, instead of supplying an answer he knew he was never going to get. He's well versed in her attitude and just grins at her in response, reaches over the console to stroke her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. She fights a smile that's kissed away a moment later. "I didn't pick you up to make out, asshole," she says, leaning back against her seat. He chuckles.

"Never said you did." She doesn't respond and he doesn't say anything more. He's never really been bothered by her attempts to fuck with him. He just reaches for the radio, moves his hand out of the way when she goes to swat it then plugs the AUX cable into his iPhone. She can't really argue with the Aaliyah coming out of her speakers, so she just drives and sings the lyrics under her breath as they ride.

"You really break up with Jesse?" Mike asks her when they're closer to Asland Boulevard, home to all the stores and boutiques that see her father's credit card most often.

"Yeah, why?"

"Just wondering. Everyone was talking about it yesterday." Of course they were. She doesn't really care about Jesse at all – or the break up for that matter – but she really doesn't have time to deal with the damage control the truth would require either.

"He broke up with me. It was amicable," she says, which isn't at all true, but it's easier. Mike nods and doesn't question her any further, though she can tell he wants to. "Can you play 'Age Ain't Nothing But A Number'?" He complies easily.

...

"I'm pretty sure I'm not allowed in here," he says when Santana threads her fingers through his and pulls him toward the dressing rooms in the boutique.

"I don't care," she tells him seriously then pushes him onto the stool in the corner of the room, his arms full of dresses. She turns herself toward the mirror on the other side of the room. It's massive, covering the expanse of the wall with an elaborate pewter bevel.

"Are you playing the new Temple Run?" She asks because Mike's eyes aren't on her and they should be. Her hands are on her hips and she's wearing nothing more than the matching bra and panties she put on this morning. His head lifts and he smirks, letting out a rumbling chuckle though his thumb never ceases to slide over the screen on his phone.

"I vote for this one."

She rolls her eyes and slips into the first of five dresses. It's not like her closet isn't full of things to wear for this very occasion, but Daddy is paying and she doesn't believe in repeating dresses. Mike slips his phone back into his pocket, watches her dip in and out of dresses with attentive eyes and oft-moistened lips, and drops an appreciative adjective into conversation when her eyes tell him he should.

She slips on the last dress, tight and black, and turns from the mirror to him with expectant eyes.

"This one," he says quietly. She's probably (definitely) going to buy the other four, but the look in his eyes is confirmation enough that this will serve its purpose tonight.

"Help me out of it?" She says, voice dropping a couple octaves. He's off the stool and smoothing the straps down her shoulders in no time. She blows him in the backseat of her truck for his effort.

...

Puck's mom would rather pose for the fucking _paparazzi_ than family photos. So, she's not home and he has no clue where she is. He wants to hate her because she's never around but she's his fucking mom, so when his phone rings while he's out banging this freshman, who looks like a senior, he stops what he's doing to talk to her. (He's done anyway, though he was hoping for another round.)

He pulls his boxers and shorts back on and grabs his shirt then kind of squeezes the chick's (Melody, maybe?) thigh. He slips out of her living room and back to the Bentley GT he has parked in her driveway before he picks up.

"Hey Sweetie," his mom says in that little singsong voice that makes him feel six again. It's hard not to roll his eyes and flare his nostrils though and he hits the gas harder than intended when he peels out of the neighborhood.

"Hey."

"How are you?"

"Swell," he says sarcastically. He can feel her jerk wherever she is, like he's slapped her in the face but he can't find it in him to feel bad. He wants to hang up. He shouldn't be small talking with his mom but there's not much more to say. "Where are you?" His curiosity is genuine.

"The Hamptons," she says.

"Coming home soon?"

"Well, no …"

"Cool. I'll talk to you later," he sort of snaps. He can't help it. She sighs as if she understands. He doesn't want her to. He'd prefer she pretended she didn't. At least then, he could pretend she didn't know she was fucking with (hurting) him.

"There's some money in your account, hun."

"There's always money in my account."

"Noah –" He doesn't wait for her to finish the sentence.

...

Santana's skin is still shower-warm but the knock on her door and the slow turn of the knob still manage to raise goose bumps over her skin. It's almost funny how it straightens her spine but doesn't draw her attention away from her reflection. It's kind of sick, too.

She ignores him when he enters, wets her lips with her tongue and pushes her hair back over her shoulder. Her body doesn't fair as well and a shudder shifts somewhere within her when his shoes rap against the floor. Still, her eyes remain steady on their match in the glass as she reaches for the tube of expensive mascara. She uncaps it just as his eyes find hers and the chill she feels isn't from the exposed skin of her chest or bare legs. Only black lace panties and lotion cover her and he's smirking as soon as he notices.

"Satan," he says, voice smug and gruff. She laughs and then drags the bristles over her lashes waiting for more. There's always more.

"What do you want?" She hates that she knows the answer; loves that she knows it, too.

His tongue slides over his bottom lip as his hand slips over her collarbone and down until a thumb is hovering _just there_. His lips drop onto her neck with such gentle pressure that they may not have dropped at all. Still, the wand twitches in her hand. She feigns disinterest, though, and extends the lashes on her other eye. His eyes are still on hers when she's done. She fixes him with a bored look before she stops looking at the mirror and trains her eyes on the hand covering her breast. Her eyebrows lift with amusement as she screws the wand into the tube and flattens it onto the counter with her palm. It makes a sharp noise that breaks through the silence he's drawn before his voice does.

"You."

She knows that much, but hearing it is always both pleasant and disturbing.

Her mouth drops open just slightly when his thumb and forefinger meet around pebbled flesh, but it spreads into a sneer when she covers his hand, pushes it away and tells him to get in line.

"I really don't think that's necessary," he supplies, moving his other hand down over the dips in her taut stomach. She pushes the chintz back just as the pads of his fingers tease at her skin just beneath the lace clutching her hips.

"Not happening, Puckerman," she hisses, standing. Her body is as lissome as ever, stretching and curving, teasing, too. "Here," she adds, passing him a string of pearls. She lifts her hair, thick, dark, and full of loose curls, and tilts her neck for him.

"Don't," she says when he moves to say something. She can nearly hear the gears grinding. "Only in your dreams."

"Only when I'm bored." He snaps the clasp and presses a kiss to her shoulder. A kiss that's very much there, even when he's gone.

...

There's a long row of cocktail dresses in her closet, a jewelry box full of diamonds and pearls on her vanity, and a rack of shoes dedicated to this very aspect of her life: pretending. There's nothing new about this routine, nothing glaringly different about the atmosphere, the music or the people, but something feels off. Something's shifted tonight.

She's moving through the crowd, with grace that's never needed practice and fleeting bright smiles that have, when her father calls her name, stealing her attention. Her smile is bright before she finds his face. His is a mirror of hers, painted with the wide grin he uses to charm strangers. His fingers curl over the arc of her shoulder and he kisses her cheek softly before tugging her in.

"Gavin. Royce. This is my daughter Santana," he's beaming, like always but there's a tug somewhere behind her belly button that connects with the thought that this is just pretend. Still, she sinks into his embrace and shakes the hands of the men standing in front of her. "They've just moved to Westbrook. Gavin here is an oncologist at St. Rose."

"Nice to meet you," she says, making sure to make eye contact with the both of them.

"They have a daughter, Rachel, who's transferring to Archbishop McKinley. Maybe you can show her around, love?" She nods easily though everything in her wants to roll her eyes.

"Sure thing, Daddy." She flashes a smile at the Berrys before tipping her head up at Dr. Lopez. "Puck's all alone over there. I'm going to go keep him company."

"Okay, sweetie." She presses a kiss to his cheek and lifts her hand to wave goodbye lightly as he adds, "Rachel's in the restroom, we'll send her your way when she comes back, okay?"

"Perfect."

...

"Baby," she teases in his ear, fingers dancing over the jacket of the Tom Ford suit covering his back before spinning herself to take residence at his other side. "You look lonely."

It's a game. It's always a game.

"It still fucking blows me that no one knows how evil you are," he says, tipping the champagne flute to his lips. Santana rolls her eyes but starts smiling and talking animatedly as soon as one of her dad's colleagues gets her attention.

He checks her out while she talks. She's in this super tight black dress that could very well be painted on. There's a mesh insert between that makes a V over her chest. There's not really a back on the dress as the V the fabric splits into peaks right before the curve of her ass. She's his height in her pumps and, fuck, if he can't help his train of thought.

She flicks her hair over her shoulder, catches his eye when she looks back then smirks before turning back to the guy. (Dr. Holder, maybe? He doesn't really give a fuck. It's her job to be charming and smiling and a little handsy, fingers on shoulders and grins with feigned interest, not his. He just has to show.)

"I heard St. James dumped you," Puck says when the doctor is gone and she's in front of him, nibbling shrimp from a tray that's just passed. He's not looking at her face when he licks his lips. She laughs and eases into the chair in front of him, makes a show of crossing her legs, slowly sliding one thigh over the other as the fabric of her dress stretches to accomodate before leaning back against her chair.

"I'm not exactly sad," she deadpans reaching for his glass. Then she's smirking like she knows something he doesn't.

"Of course not, you still have Brittany … and Matt. You still fucking Chang?"

She laughs openly at that, eyes amused and bright and his gall. He knows no one's heard him, but it's still a wonder anyone misses the games they play. It's better that way.

"Occasionally," she supplies without a hint of hesitation before finishing his drink. "What's it matter to you?"

"Doesn't. Just heard you weren't satisfying St. Lame."

She laughs again. "I wasn't," she shrugs, "Kurt was."

His jaw jerks just a hint and she pulls her bottom lip into her mouth. Her shoulders lift as she rolls her eyes and she's about to say something he can't really predict then a voice he doesn't recognize hits his ears and halts whatever it is.

...

"Santana?"

It's awkward, really, that her dads sent her over here to meet Dr. Lopez's daughter but they want her to adjust and think it's important that she do things on her own, which she understands (and suits her just fine) but it's still weird.

God, she hopes she's said the right name.

She feels like an intruder and the girl's eyes – bright, lidded with long thick lashes – scan her whole body quickly before she stands. (She's… God, she's gorgeous and that alone makes her feel a little nervous, makes her feel like she's been sent into the lion's den with another Quinn Fabray.) The girl's smiling again before Rachel can really even register it, but she still feels judged and she's wondering if she's passed whatever test that was.

"Rachel, right?" Santana says, extending her hand and smiling. Rachel takes it, the girl's palms are warm and soft and she's got a strong grip but the smile never leaves her face. She's incredibly hard to read.

Rachel laughs a little nervously. She knows her hand is clammy but Santana doesn't jerk away from the touch, just rubs her thumb across the top of it and slips her hand away after a moment. Her hand disappears completely and Rachel assumes it's resting on this boy's back. He's smiling at her as Santana speaks.

"Rachel, this is my stepbrother, Noah," she says, "Noah, this is Rachel – Berry, right?" She nods in confirmation. "Her family just landed in Westbrook. She'll be with us at Archbishop."

"Nice to meet you, Noah," she hears herself say. She feels anxious and she hates it, hates this whole set up. God knows what they're thinking of her. Her hand drifts to the hem of her dress and she tugs as her eyes take in what Santana's wearing. She looks … well, stunning and she can't help but feel a little plain in this old, navy blue dress when this girl looks like a page from a magazine or a snapshot on a blog post.

The boy chuckles and takes her hand, kisses the top of it and lets this grin (it's kind of dirty if she's being honest) spread over his face. It doesn't exactly heighten her level of comfort, but his voice is smooth and welcoming when he says, "Pleasure's mine but people call me Puck."

"Noah's a lovely name." She feels her cheeks warm and it takes everything in her not to close her eyes and wish herself away. Santana's busying herself looking at something in the distance. Rachel has to keep from looking over her shoulder to see what.

"Thank you," he says.

"So," Santana says, sitting back in her seat. She pats the arm of the chair beside her and Rachel moves to sit in it after glancing at Noah. "What's your classification?"

"I'm a junior," she says, straightening in the seat. Santana nods and, God, she really wishes she could read that facial expression. It's calculating and a little unnerving but the smile is there again and she feels herself relax unwillingly. She doesn't like the idea of being set up with friends, but maybe?

"Champagne?" Her head shakes rapidly and she feels like an idiot when she says, "I'm only 16."

"S'fine," Puck says. She doesn't miss Santana rolling her eyes, but then the girl's looking down at her dress, which barely covers her thighs, and smoothing it out. She mashes her lips together to prevent another silly protest and watches as he grabs flutes from a tray coming past. He presses one into her hand, hands the other to Santana and keeps the last for himself. "Dr. Lopez is cool with it as long as you don't overdo it," he says in a way that makes it pretty clear he has experinc with "overdoing" it.

"Okay," she mutters. She knows she's more confident than this, but these two … they're … she can't describe it. They're looking at her expectantly when she focuses her eyes, so she takes a sip and can't help but giggle at the way the bubbles tickle her nose.

She's certain she wasn't supposed to see him blow that kiss at Santana when she looks up, so she pretends she hasn't and tells Santana about Ohio when she asks where they moved from.

...

When Rachel leaves, it's with a warm buzz on her skin and the promise of being shown the ropes by Santana. Noah says there are things he can show her, too, but Santana elbows him then walks her toward the exit where her father's are waiting with Dr. Lopez.


	2. Chapter 2

The looks aren't new. Santana's aware of how good she looks in this uniform. The pleats in the charcoal grey skirt stop mid-thigh and she's explained to Headmaster Figgins that there really isn't anything she can do about making it any longer.

(She didn't tell him she altered them. The threat that Daddy would stop his very generous donations seemed to make that point moot anyway.)

The royal purple blazer is tailored to hug her body just right and the grey piping works as the perfect frame for ever-present cleavage. May presses her white button-ups on Fridays and she leaves the top two buttons unfastened. There's always a pair of studs in her ear, usually diamonds, but she wears pearls on Thursdays. And, when there's not a volleyball game she has no use for a ponytail, so dark hair covers her back, sleek as silk or in bountiful loose waves.

She is as particular about her appearance as she is about every other minute detail of her life. So, no, the looks aren't new, but that teasing one from Jesse as he smirks at her over Rachel's shoulder is. He looks as if he feels somehow victorious. She doesn't like it and she knows just how easy it is to wipe it away. It's cute that he thinks he can get the best of her though.

She smiles back, calls out, "Rachel," when she's close enough. The girl turns her head, smiling already, her hair sliding over her shoulder as her fingers comb through it. Her smile only seems to grow larger when she she sets her eyes on Santana.

"Hi, Santana," she says eagerly. Santana smiles and slides her arm over the girl's shoulder.

"I see you've met Jesse."

"Yeah," Rachel beams. "He was telling me about the choir and the school's theatre troupe."

"Oh. You sing?" She's hoping they didn't discuss that at her father's party. She can't pretend she listened to everything the girl said. She tried, but really, she wasn't _that_ interested. Rachel's eyes light up, which Santana thinks is kind of cute and – what?

She turns her attention to Jesse just to have someone to roll her eyes at before she looks back at Rachel.

"Yes," the girl says, letting out a breath. Santana's sure there are actual stars in her eyes – it hovers somewhere between weird and … The first bell is ringing before she can inquire any further but her goal was accomplished.

"See you around?" Jesse asks. Rachel nods, smiling, cheeks seeming like they're hiding rubies.

"Good." He smiles, reaches to squeeze at her hand and then looks at Santana and says her name with a curt nod before walking off. God, she kind of hates him. If dating him hadn't been a power move, well, that ship would never have sailed.

She doesn't react, just ignores him and pushes at Rachel's shoulder lightly, her hand still resting on it.

"What class do you have?" She asks, dropping her arm away. "I'll walk you."

Rachel pulls a small goldenrod colored piece of paper out of the chest pocket on her blazer and unfolds it. Unfolded the piece of paper takes the shape of a star written on in thick black ink. "Um," she says, her brows furrowing. "AP Lit and Composition."

"Oh. We have that together then," Santana says. There's three sections of the course, but only one is at this time. "C'mon. I need to stop in the ladies' room."

She leads the way and holds the door for the girl when they get to the second floor bathroom.

"Everything's so nice here," Rachel says looking around. Santana shrugs and laughs a little, mutters a quick "yeah" as she looks through her bag for her lipgloss and then drops the leather satchel on the marble sink.

She can feel Rachel's eyes on her as she applies her lip gloss and then presses her thumbs over skin to smooth her eyebrows. She blows a kiss at herself in the mirror both out of habit and for the satisfaction of hearing that small noise in Rachel's throat. Awe isn't new either, but it's still nice.

"Gloss?" She says extending the tube to Rachel without looking at her. She runs her tongue over her teeth and then smiles at herself before running her fingers through her hair and turning to her side to see how it sits on her back.

"I usually just use chapstick," Rachel says.

"Use this." It doesn't come off as optional but it isn't exactly a demand either. Rachel looks like she's putting in way too much thought into something so simple so Santana sighs and turns to her fully.

"Here," she says, uncapping the tube. "Fix your mouth like you're kissing someone."

Rachel's eyebrows furrow and a wrinkle manifests between them. Santana tips up the girl's chin with one hand and rubs the gloss over Rachel's lips with her left one. She leans back and tilts her head. "Mash 'em together." Rachel does and then Santana takes her thumb and slowly swipes the excess off the corner of Rachel's mouth. "It's yours," she says, dropping the gloss in Rachel's hand.

"I couldn't—"

"It's fine. I have more. It looks good on you. You have nice lips." Rachel smiles. "Now c'mon. We have class."

...

_Nice lips_.

She's never heard that compliment before. Her voice? That's been lauded endlessly (and she'll honestly never tire of it either) but it's not often that anything physical is cheered, so that's what she credits for the blush that creeps into her cheeks and the desire to press her fingers to her mouth, to feel what's so nice about them. Santana's spun on her heels already anyway, slinging her bag (leather; Rachel's sure she's seen it in Vogue) over her shoulder. She tugs her own bag higher up and grips it so hard her knuckles turn white as she follows.

"Cutting it close there, Ms. Lopez," is the first thing she hears when they step into the classroom just as the last bell rings. She's sure he'd be saying something to her too, if he knew her name. The look he's giving the both of them seems to make that assumption valid.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Schue," Santana says, voice sweeter than Rachel's heard it. There's something else there too, maybe. "I was helping our new student, Rachel, to class." She watches the girl smile and hopes she doesn't look entirely clueless.

The man, Mr. Schue apparently, is looking at her like he's expecting something. She just nods in agreement then glances at Santana who's sliding into a desk in the front row. There's a cup of coffee waiting on the desk already and Santana's grinning at the boy in the seat next to her. He's slim and black with skin a few shades darker than Santana's.

"Thanks for the latte," the girl says, crossing her legs. "Bring Rachel one tomorrow?" He nods then glances toward Rachel and she feels silly for being caught staring.

"New student, eh?" Mr. Schue says, with this smile she's immediately not a fan of. She straightens her spine, pulls her shoulders back and gives him her best smile when she tells him yes. "Go ahead and introduce yourself to the class."

"Okay." She turns and faces the classroom. It's pretty small. Dad talked a bit about how much smaller the classes would be – and how it would be better for her – but it's still smaller than what she expected. There might not be even twenty people in the room, with her included. "Hello everyone! I'm Rachel Berry. My family just moved here from Ohio." She waves (stupidly, she thinks after) and smiles.

"Anything else you'd like to share?"

"I think I'm fine." She sinks into the desk next to Santana and starts fishing through her bag for her notebook, hoping no one is staring at her. She's not afraid of crowds. She's sung to plenty, but there's just something about being the center of attention in an atmosphere like this that she's not a big fan of.

"He's a douche," Santana says after a moment, when Mr. Schue (whose name is actually Schuester, she notes when she peeks at her schedule) turns his back to the class and starts writing on the board.

"Yeah?" She giggles as Santana shrugs with this little smirk.

"Yep. He just doesn't know he's a jerk, which sucks, but whatever." Santana shrugs and sips her drink, a leather journal dropped onto her desk. "Kind of coffee you like?"

"I don't drink it often," she admits. "I prefer tea."

"Do you like Chai tea?" She nods. She usually drinks traditional black with lemon and honey or Earl Grey, but Chai is fine on occasion. "Hey, Bilal." The boy looks up from his notebook. "Chai tea for her, okay?"

"Got it," he says.

"Thanks," Rachel says. Santana shrugs.

"It's nothing."

"Mike, can you pass these out?" Mr. Schuester says, holding up a stack of books. The kid, Asian and limber with his blazer flipped inside out to show it's silk purple and white polka dotted lining, grabs the books and makes quick work of dishing them out. He gives her a small smile when he puts it in her hand. It makes me feel welcome immediately.

"So," Mr. Schue says, adjusting his vest, "Our second piece of the semester is Les Liaisons dangereuses or The Dangerous Liaisons by Pierre-Ambroise-François Choderlos de Laclos oft referred to simply as Choderlos de Laclos…"

She flips open her notebook and starts on her notes, grateful that she was able to come in on the start of something new.

…

Rachel's kind of cute in that whole completely oblivious way. The alternative is knowing too fucking much, which he deals with daily, so when he spots her coming into the lunchroom alone he waves her over. She looks surprised but smiles and heads his way. Fuck, she's got a nice set of legs. (She probably doesn't even know it.) He's adjusting his tie and smoothing out his blazer when Finn comes over with his tray.

"Dude, who's that?" Finn says over his shoulder.

"New girl."

"Kind of hot."

"Yeah. She is," he says. She's got on this shy little smile as she walks over, hand wrapped around the strap of her bag. The cafeteria is huge and loud and he thinks she might be a little nervous too.

"Hi!" Rachel says brightly when she finally makes it over.

"Hey. This is my boy, Finn. Finn, this is Rachel." Finn raises a massive hand to wave and beams at her. The kid has zero game and it's a wonder they're still friends, but Finn's been around since he was six, so he's probably not going anywhere. Besides, Puck appreciates loyalty and Finn's got that shit in spades.

"Nice to meet you, Finn," she says, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear then looking around. "Do you have this lunch period every day?"

Puck nods, "Yeah. Most of the junior class has it. The AP kids at least."

"Dude, Satan's coming," Finn says, in this voice that sounds a little more scared than joking. Santana is evil but Finn's actually terrified of her, which is fucking hilarious on a good day and still pretty amusing on shitty ones. She enjoys and abuses the knowledge. It's like watching a T-Rex run from a meerkat. Seriously, she weighs like 100 pounds. He's betting 20 of those are sitting right on her chest. Her fucking rack…

"Satan?" Rachel asks. He just laughs a little, shrugs his shoulders.

"He's talking about Santana. Finn's afraid of her," he says, nonchalantly. Finn squints his eyes dumbly and is nearly pouting, which – yeah, not cool.

"But she's so nice," Rachel says with this happy little shrug and he has to keep himself from laughing because there is nothing nice about his stepsister. He settles on a smirk and a bite of his burger.

"I'm not scared of her," Finn says finally, still unconvincing. He's looking at her cross the cafeteria hesitantly. Puck knows he could call bullshit but it's not really worth it. She grins when she spots him then she sees Rachel and smiles a little. Possibly genuinely, which – yeah, not normal. What's her deal?

"Yeah you are," he says, looking at Finn who glares in kind.

"Hey," Santana says, sliding into the chair next to his. She puts her salad container on the table and takes a long sip of water. "Hi, Finnocence," she lifts her fingers and does this taunting little wave, grins at him, and, yep, she's totally pushing out her chest.

He watches Finn swallow hard. You'd think the girl was capable of murder with the way the boy's spine straightens. Seriously, what's up with that? He's going to ask about it later because this is even bad for Finn.

"Sup?" She shakes her head, peels the lid off her salad and drizzles dressing on it. She tilts her head, smiles at Rachel and asks, "How's your day going?"

Rachel smiles back, tucks that same piece of hair behind her ear and pokes at her pasta. "It's good," she says. "I had calculus and choir after we had lit. Mr. Goolsby doesn't seem so bad and Jesse—"

His gaze flits to Santana. He waits for the giant eye roll but it doesn't come. She's just looking all … attentive and shit. Not at all bored or annoyed like usual. Weird. As fuck.

"He's a prick," he supplies. Santana doesn't say anything, just looks at him with this sort of soft smirk and –

"He thinks I should try out for the fall musical," Rachel says with a shrug.

"Yeah? You sing right?" Santana asks after taking a sip of her water. Rachel nods with this happy smile like she has a million things to say all at once but is like, holding it in. "You should do it."

…

"Dude, she was like, being nice to someone," Finn says when they're heading out of the cafeteria to his car because fuck fourth period.

"Yeah. S'weird," he says, shrugging and unwrapping a piece of gum.

"She's probably planning to kill that girl. You should like, watch her." Puck laughs.

"Calm down. I know she makes you tuck your tail between your legs and shit, but she's really not bad enough for you to break a sweat over." Finn looks like he wants to say something. "Your whole forehead was glistening. It was gross. What did she do to you?"

Finn's face tightens. He's trying to think of a what he wants to say, which means he's planning to lie and he's his boy and he like, loves him (in the bro way) but he's kind of dumb, so.

"You fucked her didn't you?" Puck asks when shit starts to click.

"What? No. I didn't … why would I— Okay, yeah."

Puck just stares.

"And apparently she's not a virgin, which—"

"You really thought she was a virgin?" Finn nods with this embarrassed grin and shrugs his shoulders. "Was it any good?"

"It's not weird that I fucked your stepsister?"

It probably should be.

…

"Fuck, B." Santana says before her back arches and her hips lift off the bed. Her mouth drops open to expel a sharp gasp and her thighs flex against the shoulders between them. She pushes lightly at one of them, after a moment, to stop the continued pressure against her nerves. She's fucking sensitive right now.

She's still panting when Brittany snakes up her body and presses their lips together softly. She hates how much she enjoys these soft kisses, pushes her tongue into the girl's mouth, tasting herself, just to counter it. Brittany hums against her mouth, still teasing her fingers between Santana's legs.

"Mph. Not yet."

She can't fuck any girls at Archbishop without needing to threaten them to secrecy within an inch of their lives and it's really not fun fucking someone who's afraid of you.

So, there's Brittany, who goes to Carmel Day School with her long legs and clear blue eyes and her ability and willingness to do just about anything. Thank God for flexibility.

She looks as good in Carmel's maroon and gold uniforms as Santana does in her Archbishop one but it's not like they ever wear them for long when they're together. Outside of the fucking she's nice enough, too.

"There's this new girl coming over," she says as Brittany rolls off of her and onto her back then curls up against her, pressing kisses over her chest and shoulder. She squirms a bit until pretty gets the hint and stops.

"Oh," she says, "Are you trying to see how many girls you can have sex with in a day?"

"What? No."

"Oh. I tried that once. I made it to six before I got a cramp in my arms and my tongue. I thought being ambitious would help because, you know, the use of two hands but—"

"Ambidextrous?"

"Yeah that. It didn't help though."

"Awesome," Santana says, her fingers stroking Brittany's scalp. "That's not my plan though. She's new and I'm just like, showing her the ropes or whatever."

"Sweet. You want me to leave?"

"You can stay if you want. We should probably put clothes on though."

"I almost forgot. I have to help my sister organize her Little Ponies by mood and color. So, I should get dressed but I should go, too." Brittany's a little out there, but she's sweet and really, really good at everything that counts.

She leans up to kiss Santana again, slow and wet, and Santana groans, worked up all over again. She rolls them over, slides her hand down Brittany's abs, slips her fingers between the girl's legs and moves them in a tentative circle.

"I have a few minutes," Brittany pants, arching up against her.

"Yeah? Good."

…

"Santana," May's voice calls through her door, knocking softly like always.

"You can open it, May," she says, sitting up, tugging her t-shirt down over her stomach. She's stepping into a pair of H&M trouser sweats when May peeks her head in, a soft smile on her face.

"Your friend … Rachel, I think. She's in the foyer."

"I'll be down in a sec. Can you make me iced coffee?"

"Caramel?"

"Yeah."

"Of course, hun."

"Thanks, May." She finger combs her hair and wraps an elastic around it as she jogs down the stairs.

Rachel's still wearing her coat, a little hunter green pea coat, when she steps into the foyer. She smiles warmly and fidgets a little bit.

"Hey, you can make yourself comfortable. Here," she says, holding her hand out. Rachel peels off her jacket. She's dressed in a bad version of their uniform, a plaid skirt, tights, and a sweater. She raises her eyebrows then shakes her face clear and hangs up the girl's coat.

"Sorry, I'm so late," Rachel says, smoothing her hands over her skirt. "My dads like family dinner on Thursdays."

"You're fine," Santana says, shaking her head. The lateness definitely benefited her. "Thirsty?"

"Not really," Rachel says.

"Cool. C'mon," Santana says, tipping her head toward the kitchen. Rachel follows closely behind her, quietly humming. May's pouring milk into the purple reusable cup she usually takes her iced coffee in when they step in. "Thanks," she says, kissing May's cheek. She takes a sip and fights the moan in her throat. She kind of needs her coffee.

"Nice to meet you," Rachel says to May as they're heading out the kitchen. May smiles and returns the sentiment.

"Want the tour?" She asks because most people do. She can feel Rachel's eyes on the side of her face. It's a little weird, but not uncomfortable. She doesn't seem to be judging, just curious, like she pays close attention to the people around her.

"Sure," Rachel says, voice chipper. Santana laughs a little bit because the girl fluctuates between excited and nervous so often. She's not really used to people being relaxed around her, but she doesn't really intend to be the Santana she plays at school with this girl. (Well, not yet.) She let her into her home, which says enough even if it's because her daddy asked her to. Rachel seems pretty okay and it's not like she has to be best friends with her. She's just showing her the ropes and, you know, keeping her away from Jesse. Really, she's sort of curious about her.

She shows her downstairs first: the living room, library, theater and dining room. She's pretty sure she heard the girl gasp a few times. She blushed as soon as Santana looked at her and tucked her hair behind her ear.

She knows Rachel's going to ask before she even says anything. Puck's playing his guitar in his room, singing along and the girl just kind of stops walking behind her.

"S'Puck," she says, "You want to go say hi?"

Rachel blushes but nods her head. "He's good," she tells her. Santana nods. She'll give him that. Even if he's a jerk.

He's sitting at the edge of his bed, fingering the strings when she opens his door. He smirks, pats the space next to him and she just sips her drink, tips her head toward Rachel.

"She wanted to hear what that awful noise was. I came to show her the disaster."

"I didn't—" Rachel starts to say then just bites the edge of her lip, narrows her eyes at Santana playfully then looks to Puck. "You're really good, Noah."

"I know," he says, smugly. She rolls her eyes. Yeah, she's not so bad. There's at least a little fire in her. "I was just fucking around," he adds, gesturing to the guitar. "But thanks. I'm headed out."

"We'll leave you be then," Santana says, smirking at him and turning on her heels. She catches him raising his middle finger at her as she pushes the girl out of the room. "He's his biggest fan," she tells Rachel as they climb the back staircase.

…

The girl's perched at the edge of her bed, fingering the hem of her skirt while Santana looks for some music to turn on. She settles on a playlist she uses while she's studying, fun stuff that's not too distracting, and plops on her back in the middle of th bed.

"So, how do you like it here?" Santana asks, turning onto her side so she can look at Rachel. She's got some really pretty hair. Super shiny. It's just those clothes …

"Um. It's okay, I guess. No one's really been mean, which is a plus since everyone in Ohio basically ha— It's just better," she says quickly. She clears her throat a bit and rubs at her shoulder. The girl can talk really fast. Rachel's cheeks are red again and she's staring at the silver accent wall. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to, um…"

"You're fine." Santana says because, seriously, the girl's going to have to like, curb her nerves. It's a little exhausting. "What's up?"

"It's nothing. I just wasn't very well liked at my old school."

"Oh."

"See, now I've made things awkward." This is usually where she'd be finding an excuse to like, get the girl to leave but she doesn't really want her to go and she's a little curious now. Like, Rachel's a little … intense and a ball of nerves and her wardrobe could use Santana's help, but she's pretty sure the girl was going to say that people hated her, which isn't really the vibe she gets from her and she's pretty well versed in hating people.

"You didn't. S'cool. Really. You went to school with a bunch of losers then?"

"I was the loser," Rachel says, a little too much self-loathing in her voice for Santana's comfort. Rachel's obviously trying to not look, well, sad or whatever, but failing. "Show choir, gay dads and Jewish features aren't really assets in Middle America."

"Sucks," she says because she's not a therapist. "You seem pretty cool to me. Don't worry about it. People at McKinley are easily managed."

(Not exactly the truth but the girl shouldn't like, come into school expecting to be hated.

Besides, Santana has pull and something tells her they might get along just fine.)

"Thanks. You've been really nice." She looks away from the wall to where Santana's sprawled out again, one arm behind her head. "I know my fathers asked you to show me around," she pauses and picks at piece of lint on her tights. "You really don't have to keep me around. I can manage on my own," the girl tells her, voice a little stronger than Santana's heard it before.

"You wouldn't be here if I didn't want you to be," she says with a shrug. It sounds a little bitchy, but whatever, it gets the point across. "Now let's stop with the pity party. You watch Jersey Shore?"

"I've never seen it."

"You're in luck."

...

"Could you fucking knock?" Santana hisses when he steps into her room, pushes the door closed behind him.

"No," he says laughing. He couldn't give a fuck less about her privacy, really. She rolls her eyes, looks at him then the screen of her Macbook and shuts it before putting it on the floor. "Porn?"

"No, you bastard."

"Whatever. You're doing something freaky on that thing since you won't let anyone near it." She doesn't answer, just rolls her eyes, and makes a noise of disgust when he drops down onto her mattress. "So, you fucked Finn?"

That wasn't supposed to get a reaction but she freezes up for just a moment then fixes him with an amused look before she starts to laugh.

"That big mouthed baby," she breathes, "Two minutes doesn't count."

He shrugs. He sort of expected that.

"So, this new girl…"

"What about her?"

"You're totally trying to fuck her."

She looks genuinely shocked when she says, "What?"

"No?"

"No."

"Should be. Have you seen her legs? I'd fucking—"

"Save it. I don't need the details of your fantasies."

"I could tell you a few." She rolls her eyes. He runs his fingers up her calf, "She's definitely a virgin."

"Obviously," she says with this look he hates, like he's an idiot or something. He's not. She kicks at his ankle when his palm slides up between her thighs and rolls away from him. "She's probably never even kissed anyone."

"Too bad. That mouth would probably feel awesome wrapped around my—"

"That'll never happen," she says seriously. Fuck her. He's got game. He's positive he could bag that chick. She probably just needs a little pointed attention and …

"Wanna bet?"

"No. There's nothing you have that I want."

"There's a lot I can do for you." And fuck if he hasn't wanted to since he was fourteen, before his mother decided to go off and marry Arias Lopez and ruin his life.

"Tina doesn't seem to think so."

He just laughs and wraps his finger around her ankle, slides his hand up under her sweats until he's gripping the back of her knee and bending it toward her chest. He hears the hitch in her breath. He pulls his hand out then runs his palm along her stomach.

"You know you could stop asking people about me and find out."

She pushes at his shoulder until he's laid out on his back and straddles him. Fuck, she looks hot with her hair falling down around her like that. There's this look in her eyes and her bottom lip is wedged between her teeth. He just wants to…

"If I wanted to find out," she says, hand covering his under her shirt, knees digging deeper into the mattress. He can feel her warmth on his stomach. She smirks and flips her hair over her shoulder, flexes her thighs against his sides as she locks eyes with him. She drags his hand from under her shirt and threads their fingers together then leans down so her lips are hovering dangerously close. If he just lifts his head and laces his fingers in her hair …

"I would."

She rolls off of him then, stands and tugs her hair into a bun with the tie wrapped around her wrist.

"You're a fucking tease." She blows a kiss over her shoulder, smirks when he yanks her door open. He hears her call out, "Love you too," when he slams the door behind him.

He kind of hates her.


End file.
